I never nursed a dear gazelle ;
But I was given a parroquet-
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He's imbecile, but lingers yet.
He's green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye
He'd look inimitable stuff'd

And knows it—but he will not die!

I had a kitten-I was rich

In pets but all too soon my kitten
Became a full-sized cat, by which

I've more than once been scratch'd and bitten,
And when for sleep her limbs she curl'd
One day beside her untouch'd plateful,
And glided calmly from the world,

I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog-a queen
Ah Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen
And scarce can crawl across the rug,
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert Bow-wow:
But now she snaps if you don't mind;
'Twere luuacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e'er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier-I should die.
But Ah! disasters have their use;
And life might e'en be too sunshiny:
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

From Fly Leaves by C. S. Calverley. (George Bell and Sons, London, 1878.)

OH, ever thus, since Childhood s hour We've seen our fondest hopes decay, We never raised a Calf or Cow or

Hen that laid an Egg a day,

But it was marked and stol'n away,
We never raised a sucking pig

To glad us with its sunny eye

But when 'twas grown up fat and big
And fit to roast, or boil, or fry
We could not find it in the stye.

BY OUR BUTCHER.

I never loved a dear gazelle,
Nor would I care for one if cheap
All my affections centres on

Such things as bullocks, pigs and sheep; Yet often, when a little lamb,

Whose price was low, has caught my eye, I've purchased it; but, sad to say,

Next morning it was sure to die;

I NEVER bought a young gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But, when it came to know me well,
'Twas sure to butt me on the sly.

I never drilled a cockatoo,

To speak with almost human lip, But, when a pretty phrase it knew,

'Twas sure to give some friend a nip.

I never trained a collie hound
To be affectionate and mild,

But, when I thought a prize I'd found,
'Twas sure to bite my youngest child

I never kept a tabby kit

To cheer my leisure with its tricks,

But, when we all grew fond of it,

'Twas sure to catch the neighbour's chicks,

I never reared a turtle-dove,

To coo all day with gentle breath, But, when its life seemed one of love, 'Twas sure to peck its mate to death.

I never-well, I never yet

And I have spent no end of peltInvested money in a pet

That didn't misconduct itself.

Funny Folks Annual, 1886.

THE YOUNG GAZELLE.

A Moore-ish Tale.

IN early youth, as you may guess,

I revelled in poetic lore,

And while my schoolmates studied less,

I resolutely studied Moore.

Those touching lines from "Lalla Rookh ""Ah! ever thus "-you know them well,

Such root within my bosom took,

I wished I had a young Gazelle.

Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle,
"To charm me with its soft black eye,"
So soft, so liquid, that a spell

Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.

Years, childhood passed, youth fled away,
My vain desire I'd learnt to quell,
Till came that most auspicious day
When some one gave me a Gazelle.

With care, and trouble, and expense,

'Twas brought from Afric's northern cape;

It seemed of great intelligence,

And oh! so beautiful a shape.

The little creature grew so tame,

He "learned to know (the neighbours) well," And, then the ladies, when they came, Oh! how they "nursed that dear Gazelle,"

But woe is me! on earthly ground

Some ill with every blessing dwells;
And soon to my dismay I found
That this applies to young Gazelles.
When free allowed to roam in doors,
The mischief that he did was great;
The walls, the furniture, the floors,
He made in a terrific state.

He nibbled at the table cloth,

And trod the carpet into holes, And in his gambols, nothing loth, Kicked over scuttles full of coals.

In short the mischief was immense

That from his gamesome pranks befel, And truly, in a double sense

He proved a very "dear gazelle." At length I sighed─"Ah! ever thus Doth disappointment mock each hope; But 'tis in vain to make a fuss

You'll have to go, my antelope."

I said "This antler'd desert child
In Turkish Palaces may roam
But he's much too free and wild
To keep in any English home."
Yes, though I gave him up with tears
Experience had broke the spell,
And if I live a thousand years,

I'll never have a young gazelle !

This humorous poem was written by Mr. Walter Parke the dramatist, and author of many skilful and amusing parodies. Lays of the Saintly, by the same gentleman, (Vizetelly and Co, London.) contains the lives of the principal Saints, told in rhymes imitating Swinburne, Tennyson, Longfellow, and other poets. One of the best of these legends is undoubtedly that devoted to the adventures of St. Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland. Most appropriately this is written after Moore's style, and parodies of a number of his melodies are ingeniously woven into the narrative. Amongst these are "Eveleen's Bower,' ""Love's

Young Dream," " 'She is far from the Land," "Oft in the
Stilly night,' "The Harp that Once," "The Woodpecker,"
"Let Erin remember," and " The Meeting of the Waters."
Perhaps the last is the best imitation of style:

THERE'S not in old Ireland an islet more sweet
Than the Isle where the penitents annually meet:
Oh the last spark of faith from the land must depart
Ere pilgrims forbear on that journey to start.

It is not for Nature they go to the scene,
However romantic, sublime, or serene;
'Tis not just for pleasure or holiday's sake,

They pay sixpence each to be row'd o'er the lake.

'Tis that Patrick the Great made a station for pray'r
With chapels and cells purgatorial there,
'Twas his own blessed crozier that hallowed the cave,
The heathen to vanquish, the faithful to save.

Sweet Isle of Lough Dearg ! by thy devotees blest,
If ever I'm near thee, I'll go with the rest;
Oh! may they in multitude yearly increase,
And the boatmen grow rich by their sixpence apiece

Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland's protector,
Thy mem'ry I drink in a draught of "L. L."
If ever a "medium" should show me thy spectre,
How gladly I'll bow to his mystical spell !

Farewell, farewell to fair Erin, thy daughter,

And may she grow ever more lovely and gay, Forgetting the troubles the past may have brought her, Till each shade of sorrow has vanished away.

But there is not a dull page in the whole of this dainty volume, it is full of fun and refined humour, and the imitations are in many cases, of exceptional literary merit.

Here Tories are raving-their voices are high,
As the bray of a jack-ass, or yelp of a hound,
And dirty their spleen as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into mud as it falls on the ground.
Oh! think what the conscience or mind must be worth,
When the speech and the satire are weak as a louse,
Then own if there be an Inferno on earth,

It's the house! it's the house!

Here prosper the Whigs that with lucre's vile love,
Have come down from their own vaunted honesty's sphere
Who put power all former professions above,

And forgot pledges past in the places they've here.
And bless'd with the money our pockets give forth,
What placemen the sweets of his office would douse,
For oh! if there be an Inferno on earth,

It's the house! it's the house!

SWEET BOROUGH OF TAMWORTH.

(The following song, supposed to be sung by the late Sir Robert Peel, who long represented Tamworth, is a parody of "Fanny of Timmol."

SWEET borough of Tamworth, when first I go in

To the dear House of Commons in which I was hurl'd,

I found it a place of such pelf and such sin,

And for humbug the funniest place in the world.

For the Minister's lips to their destiny true,

Seem'd to know I was born to be sold as anothers;
And to put me in mind of what I ought to do,
They whispered rich places for me and my brothers.
And then he was darting from eye-lids so sly,

Half squinting, half winking such gold beaming
light;

Let them say what they will, I could read in his eye, "Here's a bait for you, Peel, if you know how to bite."

So on Treasury benches I mingled my feet,

I felt a pulsation I cannot tell whether
Of joy shame or guilt -'twas bitter yet sweet;

But my heart and my face got as tough as cow's leather.

At length when arrived in my office I sat,

And I heard of its tricks, with a slight twinge of
pain,

But Castlereagh whispered, if once you should rat,
Dear Peel, you can never get office again.

Oh Liverpool, Castlereagh, never were any
Statesmen more pious, to place-men more true,
Of snug roguish places, you both had so many,
That my conscience was drill'd like a sieve through
and through.

But Bexley would preach, and Eldon so grieved,

That a suckling like me should be lost in a jiffey-
And Cumberland swore they could not be deceived
If they sent me to humbug the folks on the Liffey,

Professions, manoeuvres, smiles, bowing, I used,

Oh the orange sword waved without shame or relenting; And the Papists were crushed, and their church I abused, Whilst I swore that their sighs were but signs of consenting.

How the Catholic claims I scorned and denied,

Till I found my reward in a better place here;
When the Duke, rest his soul, his old principles shied,
Saying "Rat with me, Peel, or your places forbear."

In vain did I whisper, there's no danger nigh,
Bags, Bexley, and Sellis's Duke did implore,
He promised a title, a sinecure sly;

I acknowledged them both, and I asked for no more.

Was I right?-oh, I cannot believe I was wrong,
Though Whigs, King and People may shout their
disdain ;

In cursed schedule B. thou shalt not be kept long,
Sweet Tamworth, I'll rat for thee over again.

By heaven! Rotten Boroughs I'd rather forswear-
The Reform Bill, I'd hug to my plausible breast-
Than lose thee, sweet Tamworth, thy Peel will yet share
Place, power and title-you know all the rest.

From The Blue Bag; or, Toryana. By the Speaker of the House of Commons. (Effingham Wilson, London, 1832.)

The same little pamphlet contains another parody on Moore, supposed to be spoken by William Frederick, Duke of Gloucester, nephew of George III. Many amusing anecdotes of the stupidity of this Royal Duke were current during his lifetime, and earned for him the sobriquet SILLY-BILLY.

WHEN in death I shall calm recline,

More dozy I can't be than I have been here;
No power could rouse me by smiles or wine,
Silly Billy, at Cambridge they called me, dear.

I never could feel either joy or sorrow,

My heart is so spongy, my liver so white;
But very large sums from the taxes I borrow,
And humbug the people, by family right.

Curse the Whigs, they are overthrowing
Our lazy, vicious, and well-paid rest;
My moon-calf uncle's debt that's owing,
Makes all people his name detest.
When fools, and tyrants, and peers are over,
England's glad cup will flow over its brim ;
John Bull our impudent rights will uncover,

Repaying the woes we've inflicted on him.

The Duke of Gloucester had been educated at Cambridge. He died in 1834, leaving the large fortune he had amassed from the numerous sinecure offices he held during his parsimonious lifetime, to his widow.

THE SWEET BRIAR.

I THOUGHT t'other day while attempting to thin
A Briar which over my palings had curled,
As La Pompadour said, "If this were but a sin
It might be the jolliest job in the world."

For its dear little thorns to their destiny true
Seemed to know they were made to be scratchers and
stingers,

And to show me what I was attempting to do

Kept eternally gripping and pricking my fingers.

*

*

',

And whenever we mingled our shoots, and our feet,
I muttered "d
n and cannot tell whether
Through your fault or mine-but, O! Briar called sweet,
I think that we fell and we suffered together.
And at last I found out you belonged to my neighbour,
And when I had brought you exceedingly low

I discovered that I had been spending my labour
On a plant he was very desirous should grow.
In vain did I mutter "There's nobody nigh,"
In vain curse the taste of my neighbour next door,
Your response was a scratch on the lid of my eye,
And I left it at that, and I asked for no more.
Was I right? I can hardly believe I was wrong,

Though the Briar has grown through the paling again, And the devil may guide it uninjured along

E'er I put myself twice to such horrible pain.

By Heavens! I would rather forever forswear
The pleasure that lies in a garden that's neat
Than disturb for a moment the thorns that are there,
Or banish the Briar which people call sweet!
C. S. K.

:0:

The Melbourne Punch for July 1, 1880, contained a long, and very dreary parody, entitled Paradise and the Berri. It dealt with local politics, and was chiefly devoted to insulting a politician named Berry, it had no literary merit whatever. The Melbourne Punch is published at double the price of its London namesake, of which it is but a very poor imitation.

Paradise and the Peeler is the title of another long parody contained in Lyrics and Lays, by Pips. Published in 1867, by Wyman, Bros., Calcutta. This relates how the Eden gardens in Calcutta were closed to the general public, by order of the Commissioner of the Police, until a general outcry forced him to withdraw the obnoxious edict.

During Oxford Commemoration in 1866, the S. S. Amateurs performed in the Masonic Hall an "Oriental Extra

vaganza," entitled Lalla Rookh. This was written by Mr. Vincent Amcotts, of Balliol College, (founded upon Moore's poem), and the numerous songs it contained were set to music selected from Offenbach's "Barbe Bleu." This amusing travestie was published by T. Shrimpton and Son, Broad Street, Oxford.

Another Extravaganza, with the same title, was produced at the unfortunate Novelty Theatre, London, in May, 1884. The libretto was written by Mr. Horace Lennard, the musical arrangements were by Mr. P. Bucalossi, and the caste included Miss Kate Vaughan, as Lalla Rookh, Mr. Harry Nicholls, and Mr. Fred Story; the piece, however, had but a brief career.

Several other dramatic arrangements of Lalla Rookh have been produced, there was a burletta by Horn; a cantata by Messrs. W. G. Wills and Frederick Clay; and forty years ago the famous Cerito delighted the opera-goers in a ballet founded on Moore's poem.

Sixty or seventy years ago when Moore's poems were in the height of their popularity they were made the subject of a vast number of parodies. Of these the majority would now be of no interest whatever, relating as they do to persons and events long since forgotten. Some of the best of these old parodies have already been given, a few others may be enumerated to which reference could easily be made by any reader desirous of seeing them

The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1823 contained a great many travesties of Moore's Irish melodies, nearly all of which were political. The first lines of these are as follows:Go where Plutus waits thee.

Remember the Deeds of Sir Billy the Fat.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore
If in death I should lie supine.

When first I met thee, fat and fair.

'Tis the last squeak of Derry, left nearly alone.
We can roam through the Town, and of Flats make

a feast.

Peggy hath a squinting eye. (See page 245.)
Come send round the wine. (See page 243.)
Though numerous our debts are.

Oh! had I some nice little lass of my own.

Come rest in this bosom, my sweet pretty dear!
Rich and furred was the robe he wore. (See page 238.)
Fly not yet.

Blesington hath a beaming eye.

Go where Bennett waits thee.

The Old Whig Club is meeting, Duke.

The same Volume also contains a Burlesque review, or, as it is termed, a criticism extraordinary, upon a supposed poem, entitled Loves of the Mortals, by Timothy Tickle, Esq. This jeu d'esprit was published a few days after The Loves of the Angels, and the extracts given from the imaginary poem parody that work.

Figaro in London, a sarcastic paper published in London in 1831-32-33, contained many parodies of Moore's Melodies, the best of these have already been given.

Punch for 1847 contained The Loves of the New Police, in several parts. In December 13, 1856, it had a set of verses addressed to a certain Mr. Morris Moore, parodying several of Moore's Songs.

Funny Folks, May 10, 1884, on the Dynamite scare : "Believe me that all these explosive alarms."

The Humourous Works of the late Theodore Hook (London, 1873), in addition to the parody quoted on page 238, contain another on The young May-Moon but it is quite out of date. A review of "Mr. Minus the Poet" is also included in the above collection; it is a skit upon Moore's versification and philosophy, and contains a short imitation of his poetry, entitled Fanny's Bower, somewhat resembling The Living Lustres in the Rejected Addresses.

"Jack Randall's Diary, or proceedings at the House of Call for Genius," written by Mr. Breakwindow. London, Simpkin, 1820.

This is a small book which cannot be found in the Library of the British Museum. J. C. Hotten, in his “Bibliography of Slang and Cant," says (p. 103) this was written by Thomas Moore; but further information is wanted on this point.

Their hog-ships with good new-made grains; And pigs, though grubby, must be fed,

For even they feel Hunger's pains.

Alas! that mankind's greedy eye

Should e'er go thither,

Their loves to wither,

But pigs must know they're born to die

And should not squeal when the knife draws nigh.
Stickem came that morning,
While love was yawning,

And seized him, with intent to slay ;

Oh, oh!" says Love, "this is all my eye!" So he kicked him over, and flew away.